Mr Monk and the Motel Woman
by Blynneda
Summary: Monk solves a crime at a sleazy motel, but is it even a murder? Answer to fanfic Challenge.


This is my response to a Monk fanfic challenge given by Tanya.  Here are the criteria:

            1.  Sharona considers shaving her head bald.

            2.  Stottlemeyer buys a curling iron and mascara.

            3.  Someone says "in a coon's age" when referring to a span of time.

            4.  Monk is caught holding a pair of lacy black underpants.

            5.  Sharona says each of the following, not necessarily at the same time:  "I will if you will," "you want the top or the bottom?" and "I can't wait to hear you scream."

It's all in there!  This is an actual mystery story, probably about the first decent one I've ever written, so if it's confusing or too easy to figure out, I apologize.  Wow, that sentence contradicts itself.  Usually these challenge things are light-hearted and amusing.  In my case, methinks I took this a bit too seriously...

                                                **MR. MONK AND THE MOTEL WOMAN**

            Sharona, standing in front of the mirror in Monk's room, ran her hands through her hair violently for approximately the three hundredth time that morning.  It was only half past nine.  "Aagh!  I can't believe this!  Driving me nuts!"

            Monk glanced up from his desk at her shout, pointedly covering his ear with one hand, even though she couldn't see him.  He turned his attention back to the phone receiver.  "Yes.  No, I heard you.  Yeah, we'll be right over."  He hung up.

            Sharona was trying to yank a brush through her tangled curls, with little success, when Monk entered.  She threw the brush down in frustration.

            Monk walked over to his nightstand.  "Saddle up, we've got a case."  He stopped to look at Sharona more closely.  "What's wrong?"

            Sharona turned her glare on Monk.  "What do you _think_ is wrong?" she growled through clenched teeth.  "I'm having a bad hair day."

            Monk blinked.  "Oh."  He cocked his head to one side.  "I, uh, didn't notice."

            Sharona rolled her eyes to her reflection and tried again to secure her hair in a ponytail.  "Yeah, right.  You probably roll out of bed ready to go."  

            Monk opened his mouth for a second and quickly closed it again.

            The hair was not cooperating.  "Oh, _God!" she exclaimed, tugging with both hands.  "I think I'm going to just shave it all off!"_

            "You're going to _what_?" Monk asked, wincing at her volume.

            Sharona looked back at him defiantly.  "Shave my head.  Haven't you ever thought about doing that?"

            Monk shook his head in bewilderment.  "Shaving your head?"

            "No, _yours.  I give up.  Where's my brush?"  She searched the top of the dresser in front of her._

            "On the floor, where you tossed it."  Monk reached a hand up to tentatively touch his own hair.  "Well, for a while I was a bit...uneasy about hair.  I got over it.  Mostly," he added with a shrug.

            Sharona found the brush.  Tangles of hair were caught in the bristles.  "I will if you will."

            Monk cringed as he watched her fling the brush back into her handbag without removing the hair.  "Will what?"

            "Shave your head," she said casually.

            Monk actually looked like he was considering it for a moment.  Sharona looked up at him.  "No."  He shook his head more vehemently than necessary.  "I don't want the hair to go down the back of my shirt and--"  He shuddered and turned away without finishing.

            Sharona smiled to herself, watching Monk tuck his wallet into his inside blazer pocket.  "So where are we headed?"

            Monk straightened his collar.  "Brandywine.  Some motel...the Prince's Inn?"

            "There's a nice part of town," Sharona commented dryly.  "You ready yet?"

            Monk stopped and glanced at her pointedly.  "I'm sorry we can't solve all our crimes in pleasant suburban neighborhoods."

            "Well, it'd make things a lot easier."  She pulled her car keys from her bag.  "Let's go solve another crime."

                                                            *   *   *

            "So, what's the situation, Captain?" Monk asked as he and Sharona approached Stottlemeyer in the motel parking lot.

            The lot was quite tame for a place that had, just hours before, experienced a crime.  Only two black-and-whites remained on the scene, along with several unmarked cars belonging to detectives.  The potholes Sharona had tried, not entirely successfully, to dodge as they entered indicated the lot probably hadn't been repaired for a good ten years.  The building itself was in no better shape:  the roof was peeling off shingle by shingle, the foundation was cracked, and, of the fire safety boxes bolted to the support columns, only one in three contained a fire extinguisher.

            Stottlemeyer looked around and gestured toward a second floor room barricaded by yellow police tape.  "We got a report about four in the morning of a couple shots fired in that room up there--216.  Shortly after that, an eyewitness says he saw two men leave that floor--he didn't actually see them leave that room, but it's the only one unaccounted for.  This place doesn't exactly do a booming business."

            "I'll bet," Sharona remarked critically.

            "The men left on foot.  Witness doesn't have much of a description, but it's something to go on, anyway.  They were about the same height, short dark hair both, wearing dark clothes, jackets.  He said it was dark out," Stottlemeyer added dryly.  "This could be of use:  one of them was limping a little."

            Monk nodded.  "They left together?"

            "Yeah," Stottlemeyer confirmed.  "Only problem is, we don't seem to have a murder."

            Monk looked up sharply.  "What do you mean?"

            Stottlemeyer tugged at his ear.  "Well, we've got a little blood splatter up in the room, but no body.  No evidence of a homicide."

            Sharona glanced around.  "Where's Disher?"

            The captain shrugged.  "He's off covering something else."

            Sharona lifted a hand to her face in a display of shock.  "My, shouldn't we be helping with _that one, then?"_

            "It's a traffic accident," Stottlemeyer replied.

            Monk shook his head in confusion.  "Wait.  You said there's no body--but why do you assume there's a murder?"

            "Well, the blood, for one.  The spatter pattern matches a gunshot, which we were called here for.  And another, room 216 is rented to one Tiffany Twist."

            Sharona coughed.  "Tiffany _Twist?" she said incredulously._

            "According to the manager, she paid a week's rent in advance, cash," the captain continued.  "That was four days ago.  This is one of those places, about a quarter of the people here are long-term residents.  Some of those residents think Ms. Twist was--is--a hooker."

            "And you think she was the victim?"

            Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows.  "It's her room.  Unless you want to bring someone else into this.  My theory--and you can try it on for size--is these guys were unsatisfied with Ms. Twist's services and shot her."

            Sharona looked at Monk and back to Stottlemeyer.  While Monk was thinking, she asked, "Then where'd she go?"

            Monk looked up at the door to room 216.  "We need more information."

            Stottlemeyer followed his gaze.  "Yeah.  Go on up.  Don't worry about touching stuff, we've already been through everything.  So many fingerprints in there, there's nothing worth lifting."

            Monk nodded and started towards the building.

            The captain pointed.  "The stairs are over there.  Watch out, Monk, it's a mess in there."

            Monk faltered a step.

            Sharona caught up to him.  "Nice place," she said.  "_I wouldn't even stay here."_

            "That's comforting to know," Monk said quietly.

            They climbed the stairs and reached the room.  The door was ajar and a uniformed cop was standing guard just outside.  Monk stopped, closed his eyes, and prepared himself to enter.

            Sharona smiled at him.  "I can't wait to hear you scream."

            Monk scowled at her and nudged the door open with his foot.  As they entered, Monk shuddered, his shoulders twitching.

            Sharona winced.  "Oh, God."

            The room was small and cramped, with one double bed taking up most of the floor space, thankfully limiting the appearance of the carpet with its indeterminable stains.  Across the room from the bed, a chest of drawers stood against the wall with a television on its surface top.  The bathroom was directly to the right as they entered, its door currently closed.

            The mattress sagged in the middle, the bed sheets were rumpled.  More noticeably, however, the upper third of the bed was sprayed with blood.  Most of the splatter was directed back on the headboard and the wall above the bed, covering a framed picture of a sailboat with drops of dried blood.

            The first thing Monk said was, "This bed wasn't slept in last night."

            Sharona looked at it.  "How do you know?"

            He gestured to the foot of the bed.  "The sheets are still tucked in tightly.  If someone had spent any time underneath the covers, they would have pulled it out, either intentionally or while they were shifting in their sleep."

            "Well, okay.  That doesn't really tell us much."

            Monk glanced at Sharona.  "She was awake at four in the morning," he said with some surprise.

            Sharona smirked.  "Not everyone goes to bed at ten p.m."

            Monk studied the stain carefully.  He backed up against the chest of drawers and lifted his right arm, pointing it toward the opposite wall.  He looked down, took a step forward, lifted his arm again.  Then he shook his head.  "There's not enough blood here."

            Sharona "Are you kidding?  There's plenty for my taste."

            Monk shook his head.  "No, I mean, the room's about ten feet wide here.  If someone was standing here and shot towards that wall," he gestured toward the stain, "that'd be practically point-blank range."

            "Well, I think it's pretty clear someone was shot."

            "Yeah.  But it wasn't fatal, there's not enough blood.  Maybe they were shot in the arm or something...?  And I don't think it was a very powerful gun, maybe a .22."

            Sharona brought a hand up to massage her temple.  "So, what does this mean?  We don't even know if a crime was committed?"

            Monk shook his head slightly, still staring at the bloodstain.  "No, there's a crime here.  We just have to find out what it is and why."

            "Do you believe the captain's theory?"

            Monk's shoulder twitched.  "No.  If it was an angry customer, why would they bother to move the body?  Whoever shot that gun wouldn't have much time to get away before drawing attention."

            "Well, what if she shot one of the men?"

            Monk narrowed his eyes in thought.  "That still doesn't answer, where did she _go_?"

            Sharona walked over to the other side of the bed to look at the phone on the nightstand.  It looked dusty, as if it hadn't been used recently.  "So we have to figure out what happened to Tiffany."

            "Right."  He paused.  "You laughed before, when the captain told us her name."

            "I did _not_ laugh!" Sharona retorted defensively.

            Monk followed her across the room and looked down at a chair in the far corner of the room.  "No, you had a reaction to it," he insisted.  "Why?"

            Sharona glanced at Monk.  "You have to ask?  Tiffany Twist--if that's a real name, I'll...I'll buy you a year's supply of wipes."

            Monk looked at her in surprise.  "We'll have to talk to the manager."

            "Okay.  You wanna check the bathroom now?"  Sharona turned back to the door.

            Monk paused.  "Hold on.  Why don't we see if there's anything in these drawers?"  He pointed at the chest.  There were two large drawers with tarnished-looking metal handles.  Monk waited for Sharona to open them.

            Sharona sighed and knelt in front of the chest.  "You want the top or the bottom?"

            Monk hesitated.  "Um...top.  No, uh, maybe the bottom would be better first..."

            "Bottom it is," she said, yanking on the lower drawer.

            "Wait!  Maybe--" Monk started.

            "Too late!" Sharona announced, struggling with the drawer.  "Damn, I think it's stuck."  She pulled harder, grimacing with the effort.  And then the drawer came unstuck, throwing Sharona backwards.  Monk neatly sidestepped, so she collapsed into the end of the bed.

            "It's empty," he said.  "Are you all right?"  Monk peered down at her curiously.

            She sat up and glared at him.  "Yeah.  Thanks for your help."

            The uniformed cop who had been standing outside popped his head in.  "Sharona, Captain Stottlemeyer wants to ask you something."

            Sharona pulled herself to her feet and exchanged a glance with Monk.

            The cop jerked his head toward the parking lot.  "Just Sharona, he said.  You can keep looking around, Monk."

            Monk nodded and turned his attention back to the drawer.

            Sharona met the Captain in the parking lot.  "What is it?"

            Stottlemeyer shot a glance up to the room she'd left Monk in.  "How's Monk today?" he asked.

            She scowled.  "What do you mean?"

            "I mean, is he acting strange or anything?"  Stottlemeyer actually looked serious.

            Sharona stared at him.  "No more than usual.  Why?"

            Stottlemeyer looked her in the eyes.  "It's his wife's half birthday today."

            She paused.  "What?"

            Stottlemeyer shrugged.  "He always used to celebrate Trudy's half birthday--the day six months before her actual birthday."

            "Oh.  Right."  Sharona shook her head.  "He didn't say anything about it."

            Stottlemeyer grunted.  "Maybe he forgot."

            "No," Sharona replied.  "He wouldn't have forgotten."  She looked thoughtful.

            "All right," Stottlemeyer said, waving his hand with a show of unconcern.  "Have you looked under the bed?  There's a shirt or something.  We didn't move it, figured Monk could make some sense of it.  We've already mapped out the room, so Reynolds upstairs can bag it up now."

            "Did you check the drawers?" Sharona asked.

            Stottlemeyer shrugged.  "Nothing special.  A Gideon Bible and some clothes.  The bottom one sticks a little."

            "Thanks for the warning," she muttered.  "We still have to check the bathroom."  She started back for the room.

            "You can tell Monk we just got a type on the blood.  DNA'll take a while."

            Sharona stopped outside room 216 to pass Stottlemeyer's message to the cop, Reynolds.  He grabbed his evidence kit and pulled out a pair of disposable gloves.

            They walked back inside room 216 to find Monk crouched next to the chest of drawers.  He had opened the top drawer and was now daintily holding up a pair of lacy black panties, which he was examining closely.

            Sharona stopped short.  "What are you doing?"

            Monk's head snapped up as if he had been caught doing something naughty.  "I was, uh, checking the drawer," he stammered.

            "It's underwear.  Why are you staring at it so long?"

            Monk put the pair in his hand back and picked up another.  "I'm not sure."

            Sharona walked over and looked in the drawer.  "Look, there's a couple shirts, too.  Why don't you stare at those?"  She had for some reason taken offense.

            "There's something wrong," Monk murmured.

            Sharona rolled her eyes.  "I'll say.  There's something under the bed.  Captain Stottlemeyer wanted you to take a look."

            The uniformed cop reached under and withdrew a piece of white clothing.  "There's a lot of blood under there.  It was soaking in it," Reynolds remarked.

            "What is it?" Sharona asked.  She elbowed Monk to prompt him to pay attention, but he was still staring into the drawer.

            Reynolds held the clothing up to examine.  "Looks like an undershirt."

            Sharona frowned.  "A _man's undershirt?"_

            Reynolds slipped it into a large, clear plastic bag.

            "They're all the same," Monk was saying to himself.  He picked up another pair of panties and set it back again, closing his eyes in thought.  "No, not ex_actly."_

            "Adrian?"  Sharona looked down at him.

            Monk stood up.  "All the underwear is the same color."  He turned to Sharona.  "Is all your underwear the same color?"

            It took Sharona a moment to realize her mouth was hanging open.  "Well, that's a bit personal, don't you think?"

            Monk looked back innocently, then glanced down at the drawer.  "Look, it's all black."

            Sharona shrugged.  "Maybe she liked the color black.  Isn't your underwear all the same color?"

            Monk shook his head in frustration.  "That's different."

            "Oh, yeah?  Maybe she was like you--a boring person."

            Monk pretended he didn't hear her.  He gestured at the drawer again.  "Here's something else.  They all look brand new, like she just bought them.  See, none of the lace is worn through."

            Sharona looked like she was amused by his discomfort.  "I never realized you were such an expert on lingerie."

            "And another thing," Monk continued, "there's at least two different sizes in here.  Why would someone buy two different sizes of underwear?"

            Sharona's smile faded as she noticed Monk was on to something.  "So what does it mean?"

            Now Monk was less confident.  "I'm not sure yet."  
            "Why don't you check the bathroom now?" Sharona asked resignedly.

            Reynolds looked from Sharona to Monk and back again.  "When you're done, I need to bag up the things in there.  It's pretty clean, anyway.  Not much to see."

            Sharona turned the knob and let the door creak open.

            Monk stepped backward.  "Aww!  You call this clean?"

            There were a couple of soggy towels on the floor, but they didn't manage to completely cover the grimy, cracked tiles.  A small shower stall took up almost half the room, leaving just enough space for a toilet and sink.  The mirror above the sink was streaked, causing Monk to lunge for his handkerchief.

            A tiny bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap, both provided by the housekeeping service, rested on a ledge in the shower.  A pink disposable razor was tucked behind the faucet on the sink.  Along the edges of the sink were strewn several make-up containers—eyeshadow, blush, and two mascaras—and a curling iron.

            "Hmm," Monk said, surveying the room.

            "What are we looking for?" Sharona asked.

            "Anything...out of the ordinary.  Could you check that garbage bin?" he gestured under the sink.

            Reynolds picked it up.  "There's a...wrapper from the soap and a few tissues.  That's it."  He tilted it toward Monk for inspection.  "There's another one out there.  I'll take a look at it."

            Monk nodded absently and crouched, inspecting the floor.  He glanced up at Sharona, then his eyes shifted down to her handbag.

            "What is it?"

            "I'm still thinking," Monk said simply.

            Reynolds appeared in the doorway again.  "Just a few fast food wrappers.  They would have changed the garbage the last time they cleaned the room."

            "Yeah, I know."  Monk straightened.  "I'll have to talk to the manager."  He left the motel room.

            Sharona exchanged a confused look with Reynolds and hurried after Monk.

            Stottlemeyer called Monk over as soon as he reached the parking lot.  "Monk, I just got a call.  We've got a dead body in an alley a couple blocks over.  The guys on the scene think it might be one of our suspects here.  Let's go take a look."

            "But I haven't talked to the manager yet," Monk protested.

            "It'll have to wait, unless you'd rather miss out.  Besides, the one you want to talk to isn't here yet.  We've been waiting for her all morning."  Stottlemeyer opened the passenger door of his car.  "What'll it be?"

            Monk looked worried, but Sharona piped in, "We'll be right behind you, Captain!"

                                                *   *   *

            The cop at the scene, Leonard, filled in Captain Stottlemeyer and Monk.  "Name's Tom Fleagle, age 25.  Got an arrest record, so we I.D.'d him pretty fast.  Not to mention we've been looking for him."

            "Why's that?" Monk asked.

            "The owner of a shipping warehouse in Oakland, uh, Jack MacIntosh.  He had proof this guy, who _was_ an employee, had been skimming a little off the top.  He ran off about a week ago."

            Stottlemeyer stared down at the body.  "Well, he won't be taking any more dough.  What killed him?"

            The cop leaned over the body and pointed with his pen.  "Blow to the back of the head with a blunt object.  Cracked the skull open.  Could have been a mugging if he had a lot of money on him.  It's a pretty quiet alleyway."

            "No, his wallet's still in his pocket," Monk said.  "I don't think money was a motive here."

            "When'd he die?" Stottlemeyer asked.

            Leonard jabbed a thumb back in the general direction of the Medical Examiner's car.  "Jake thinks it was between, say, two and six, this morning."

            Monk's eyes lit up with interest.  "The time frame fits," he commented.

            "What's that blood on his shoulder there?" Stottlemeyer asked, pointing.

            Leonard crouched over the body again.  "Now, the strangest thing, as you can see, is this guy has a gunshot wound in his left upper arm.  Non-fatal, but it bled a lot.  M.E. says it probably didn't happen the same time as the blow to the head."

            Monk looked excited.  "I think we have one of our suspects, Captain."

            "All right," Stottlemeyer said, considerably less enthused.  "But who killed him?  And why?"

            "Could it have been Tiffany?" Sharona asked.

            Nobody said anything, watching as Monk bent over to get a closer look at the body.

            Finally, Stottlemeyer answered.  "Well, I don't know how the hell else she's involved here."

            "What's that…residue?  On his fingernails?" Monk asked, pointing.

            Leonard took a look.  With his gloved hand, he touched one of the nails cautiously.  "Not sure.  Something kind of…sticky.  We'll figure it out in the lab."

            "That's what I thought."  Monk stood up, satisfied.  "Have you sent anyone out there to talk to the owner, Jack MacIntosh?"

            Leonard answered, "Not yet.  The Oakland PD doesn't like it when we hedge in on their turf.  We're working on it."

            "You can go check it out if you like," Stottlemeyer answered.

            Monk nodded.  "We will.  But first I need you to do something for me, Captain."

            Stottlemeyer looked up suspiciously.  "What?"  
            "There's a drugstore around the block there, just a few doors down, you can't miss it.  I need you to go in there and buy…Get, I don't know, some make-up.  And see if you can find a curling iron."

            Stottlemeyer's brow hardened.  "Why do I have to do it?"

            "Because I know you," Monk replied.

            Stottlemeyer exchanged a glance with Sharona.  "Why can't Sharona do it?"

            Sharona jumped in to help Stottlemeyer.  "Yeah, Adrian, I can go do that."

Monk wasn't willing to discuss it.  "No!" he exclaimed, his eyes darting around nervously.  "I, uh, need Sharona."

Stottlemeyer considered. He finally shrugged.  "Whatever.  I'll be back in a few minutes.  Like I don't have anything better to do," he mumbled to himself, walking away.  He knew better than to question Monk's judgment.

"What was that all about?" Sharona asked.

            "We'll find out soon, I hope."

            Sharona lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness.  "You're the boss.  You know, if we're driving all the way out to Oakland, I'm going to have to fill up the tank."

            Monk looked worried.  "You-you are?"

            Sharona favored him with a sympathetic glance.  "You want me to take care of it now, while you wait here for the captain?"

            Monk shook his head.  "No.  No.  I'll be fine," he said, not sounding as confident as his words.

            Captain Stottlemeyer returned about ten minutes later, as Monk and Sharona idly looked over the crime scene again.  "I got what you wanted…some kind of make-up and a curling iron, I guess."  He held up his purchases.  "What is this, lipstick?"

            Sharona took the little bottle from him, laughing.  "No, it's mascara.  Can't you see, it's written right there on the tube?"

            "Yeah, whatever," Stottlemeyer said, embarrassed.  "Now, why'd you want me to go buy it when I don't know what the hell I'm looking for?"

            Monk took a quick glance at the purchases and nodded.  Then he cocked his head to one side and turned aside.  "Thanks, Captain."  He headed back to Sharona's car.  "Let's go, Sharona."

            Sharona gave Stottlemeyer a smirk.  "I think he's just yanking your chain, Captain."  

            Stottlemeyer gazed after Monk.  "You sure he's all right, Sharona?  He's not talking about his wife?"

"He's fine," Sharona said with a smile.  She took the curling iron from him, as well, and followed Monk.  "See you later!"

            In the car, Sharona asked Monk about the make-up.

            "I needed to see what somebody who knows nothing about make-up would buy," he replied.

            Sharona scowled.  "Why?"

            Monk shrugged as they pulled into a gas station.  "I'm working on a theory here."

            Sharona stopped the car.  "And I guess I'm not good enough to get to hear about it?"

            Monk turned his head to face her and lifted one shoulder.  "I'm, uh, still working on it."

            Sharona opened the door.  "Hold your breath."  She pumped a full tank and paid, then returned to the car.

            Monk was gasping.  "I couldn't hold…my breath…that long," he explained.

            Sharona rolled her eyes.  "I guess there's no point in saying I was joking."  As she started up the car again, she gestured at the dash.  "I'm restarting the trip meter.  Could you write that down, 58 miles?  I need to keep track of the mileage for the paperwork."

            Monk glanced at the dashboard and nodded.  "I got it."

            "You didn't write it down," she said with a sideward look.

            Monk shrugged.  "I don't need to."

                                                *   *   *

             "Yeah, I knew him.  I'm sorry I did."  Jack MacIntosh was in his late fifties, with graying hair and a touch of a Southern accent.

            "How long did he work for you?" Monk asked, trying to avoid looking at the mess of papers covering the business owner's desk.

            "My nephew and him came out from Georgia about two years ago.  They were friends from high school.  Howie'd put in a good word for Tom, but I found out pretty soon he was a deadbeat.  Cleaned me out several thousand dollars and disappeared.  Now, my nephew, he's a good boy.  He told me what his friend was doing, so I called the police right up.  They've been searching over a week.  I suppose they finally found him."

            "Your nephew was friends with Tom?  Is he...here, now?" Monk asked.

            MacIntosh shrugged.  "He's around somewhere.  He might drop in.  Listen, did you find out what happened to my money?" he asked sternly.

            Monk tried a diplomatic smile.  "We're working on that, sir.  I'm a little more interested in finding out how Tom Fleagle died."

            MacIntosh stopped to look at Monk.  He glanced over at Sharona and back.  "Well, you don't think _I_ did it, do you?"

            Monk hesitated.  "We're trying to find that out."

            MacIntosh opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off as the door behind Monk and Sharona burst open.

            "Joey says the truck from H.O.P. just drove up.  I—oh, sorry."  A young man, mid-20's, with shockingly platinum-dyed hair, contrasting sharply with his black chin stubble, stood in the doorway.  His accent was even more pronounced than MacIntosh's.

            "Now, what the devil'd you do that for?" MacIntosh cried, staring at the man's hair.  He turned back to Monk.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Monk, this here's the boy you're lookin' to talk to.  My nephew Howie."

            Howie looked nervously down at Monk.  His eyes went back to MacIntosh as he shrugged, "Uh, I was just goin' for a little different look.  Haven't changed in a coon's age, you know…Who are you?"

            Monk eyed the nephew closely.  "I'm…investigating a crime involving your friend, Tom Fleagle."

            Howie's eyes widened.  "What happened to him?"

            Monk shot a glance to Sharona.  "He was murdered sometime early this morning."

            Howie's face filled with shock and he leaned back against the doorframe.  "Tom?" he mumbled weakly.

            Monk stared intently at the kid.  "Were you…close?"

            Howie held a hand over his eyes.  His voice cracked as he answered, "We've been pals since we was just kids!  We grew up together!" 

            Monk delicately continued, "Do you know a woman named Tiffany Twist?"

            Howie's head jerked up.  "What?"  He paused and then shook his head.  "I don't think so.  Why?  Did she kill him?"

            "We're trying to find that out."

            MacIntosh interrupted.  "Well, I don't know how I'm involved here.  I've been in the office here since six.  If you can get that money back for me, you let me know."

            Sharona shot a suspicious glare at MacIntosh.

            Monk stood up and folded his hands in front of him.  "Thank you for your time, Mr. MacIntosh.  We'll be in contact with you if we have any news."

            MacIntosh nodded, but didn't offer his hand.  "Thanks," he said gruffly.

            Monk nodded to Sharona, and they walked past the grieving nephew.

            When they returned to the car, Sharona asked, "Why didn't you question MacIntosh more intensely than that?"

            "Because I don't think he did it," Monk answered, buckling his seat belt.

            "Why not?  He kept harping on about his money and what a deadbeat Tom was."

            "But then why would he make it clear that he had a motive to kill him if he was trying to hide his guilt?  No, I don't think it makes sense.  And he didn't know where Tom was, remember?  He wouldn't have called the police to find him if he knew where he was."

            "So we're back to square one, then, aren't we?" Sharona said, frustrated.

            "Not quite."  Monk looked back out the window.  "Now we go back and talk to that manager."

                                                *   *   *

            "I already talked to the police," the motel manager said stubbornly.

            "I'm not the police," Monk insisted.  "I'm a private consultant."

            "Listen, I don't want no part of this.  I didn't know what that woman did for a living, and I didn't ask.  Her money was green, so I took it."

            Monk nodded.  "Do you…generally rent rooms to people who pay in cash?"

            The manager shook her head.  "No.  I'm, uh, required to take down some kind of identification—credit card, driver's license—when I check someone in, but I didn't."  She looked at them defiantly.

            "Why not?" Monk asked gently.

            "She said she didn't have a credit card or I.D.  And…she slipped me an extra couple bucks."

            "An extra couple bucks?" Sharona asked incredulously.

            "All right, she gave me a C-note!  I didn't ask any questions."

            Sharona raised an eyebrow at Monk.

            Monk glanced out the window at the parking lot.  "Did she have a car?"

            The manager followed his gaze, trying to figure out what Monk was looking at.  "Well, yeah.  The first day, she drove up in a dark blue sedan, early 90's maybe.  I didn't get the make or model or the license plate.  I never saw it again."

            "And it wasn't there last night?"

            "No."

            Monk turned back to the front desk.  "What did she look like?  What was she wearing?"

            The manger stopped to think.  "Well, I told the police, she was all covered up, some long trench coat or something.  She had long dark hair—"

            "Straight or curly?" Monk interrupted.

            "I don't know…straight, maybe.  And she was wearing so much make-up I could barely see her face.  Looked like a raccoon.  Not very attractive, I might say."

            Monk nodded.  "Do you remember if she said anything to you?"

            The manager scratched her head.  "I don't know.  Said she was from out of town, hadn't been up here in a coon's age…"

            Monk stopped.  "She _said that?  'In a coon's age?'"_

            The manager stopped, puzzled.  "Yeah.  Is that important?"

            Monk's lips curled up.  He was silent for a minute.  "I got it!" he declared.

                                                *   *   *

            "So how the hell did you figure this out?" Stottlemeyer asked.  They were in the questioning room with Howie, the nephew.

            Monk shrugged.  "I knew there was something wrong with the motel room.  The clothing looked like it was there for show—it was all new.  And the razor in the bathroom was sitting where a _man _would keep his razor.  And…Tiffany Twist had long dark hair, but there was no hairbrush and no hair on the floor of the bathroom where she might have brushed it."

            Sharona and Stottlemeyer stared at him.            

            Monk continued.  "So, I realized, this wasn't the room of a woman…it was a man, dressed up to _appear as a woman."_

            "You mean like a transvestite?" Stottlemeyer asked.

            Monk shook his head.  "No.  I don't think so.  Tom Fleagle was trying to disguise himself so he wouldn't be recognized by the police!"

            Sharona was shocked.  "So there _is no Tiffany Twist!  I knew that was fake!"_

            Monk nodded.  "And there was an argument in room 216 early this morning between Tom and Howie.  Howie was trying to convince Tom to turn himself in, at gunpoint, but he refused, so Howie shot him."

            Howie looked up with shock and grief in his eyes.  "I just tried to scare him!"

            "And it worked," Monk said.  "When he got hit, he decided to come with you back to your car, which you'd hidden several blocks away, but then he tried to escape, didn't he?"

            Howie shook his head slightly.  "I was just trying to slow him down!  I didn't want to hurt him!"

            Monk looked back at Stottlemeyer.  "He knocked him unconscious with the butt of his gun, but he hit him too hard.  And when Tom didn't wake up, Howie hurried back to Oakland and dyed his hair to avoid being recognized as being at the motel."

            Howie looked down.  "It was an accident.  He was stealing from my uncle.  I had to get the money back.  Uncle Jack was going to fire me."

            "How'd you know it was him?" Sharona asked.

            "It was something he said when we met at MacIntosh's office.  I told him we were investigating a crime involving Tom and he asked, 'What _happened_ to him?'  If he knew he'd been stealing from the company, he should have assumed it was about that.  But he already _knew Tom was dead."_

            "That's pretty damn impressive, Monk," Stottlemeyer said.  "But why the hell did I have to go buy that crap at the drugstore?"

            Monk shrugged.  "There were two containers of mascara, but they were different brands.  I didn't think a woman would need two mascaras if she was staying in a motel.  So I wondered, 'What would a man buy if he was buying make-up?'"

            Sharona laughed.  "And he knew you were the best bet!"

                                                *   *   *

            After the crime was solved, Monk and Sharona sat in the car, preparing to head home.  Sharona shot a glance to Monk as she stuck the key into the ignition.

            "You know, Adrian, I'm really proud of you.  It's Trudy's half birthday and you didn't have any trouble today."

            "What?" Monk asked, looking at her strangely.

            "Captain Stottlemeyer told me about it.  I can really see you improving every day.  I can't believe it."  She couldn't hold back a delighted grin.

            Monk shook his head.  "What are you talking about?"

            Sharona paused.  "Her…half birthday…?"

            "That's not today," Monk insisted.  "It's tomorrow."

END

_You know that goofy grin Monk gets when he's figured out a case?  That's the kind of smile I got when I finished this story!  I'm not sure if I've wrapped it up okay, let me know.  I hope you enjoyed!_


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